As Teacher’s Day draws closer, one fondly remembers the teachers who left an indelible impression on our minds. Unfortunately, this year the memories have acquired a gloomy hue with the news of the passing away of a luminary, Amarjit Sikand, the head of the physical education department at Apeejay School.
Those were the days of an easy-going and sheltered life on the school campus, in the ’90s, when teachers could be merciless yet students took no offence.
Sikand Sir, as he was fondly called, rose to the demands of his department and assumed sternness required for keeping the mischievous lot in check. Our feet thudded harder on the ground when it was him giving the commands of ‘stand at ease’ and ‘attention’ in his inimitable style. Apeejay maintained a winning streak in the Sahodayas with him at the helm.
Spectacled, hair slicked back and his ramrod straight posture adding to his no-nonsense aura, he placed himself at every spot where trouble could brew, from the gate in the morning to catch the latecomers, to the staircase where crowds of students came cascading down at dispersal. Coming face to face with Sikand Sir while loitering around the corridor was the stuff nightmares were made of.
Despite the tough exterior, he had endeared himself to all as he was one of the most communicative members of the staff who speaking in impeccable English, could engage students in interesting conversations.
{{/usCountry}}Despite the tough exterior, he had endeared himself to all as he was one of the most communicative members of the staff who speaking in impeccable English, could engage students in interesting conversations.
{{/usCountry}}Substituting for a teacher-on-leave, he would regale us with remarks dripping with sarcasm that can be termed ‘savage’.
I can clearly recall some of the conversations, like on the day I almost fainted in the morning assembly and sir patiently sat with me and discussed how a good diet could have prevented it. There were several other such conversations on an excursion to Dalhousie, discussing ‘false prestige’ in the bus. Sir even played a prank on us one night, wearing a Dracula mask!
One incident is etched in my mind. We had just started a new academic year in Class 11, commerce. Finally free of the rigours of math and science and foraying into the more agreeable world of economics and business studies, we realised that accountancy was the only thorn in our newly acquired bed of roses. To take regular breaks from the ‘monster subject’, four of us decided to go for water before the accounts period and return late, so that the teacher would be annoyed and won’t let us enter. Things moved as per plan and the classroom door was shut on us. We inched towards the water-cooler and made a din, literally letting our hair loose.
To our horror, out of nowhere Sikand Sir descended from the staircase near the water-cooler and our giggle-fest came to an abrupt halt. We hadn’t reckoned with his uncanny ability to land up in situations wherever children attempted to grow too big for their boots!
We braced ourselves for a verbal lashing, but sir had noticed that our riotous spirits that were soaring high like helium-inflated balloons a few minutes ago had been suitably punctured, and he simply escorted us back to the classroom.
Years later, he visited the school I was teaching at, and enquired, “You are teaching here? Not in your own school?”
Many of my experiences with sir seemed commonplace when I was a student, but now years later after gaining more maturity, they seem significant. Little gestures shape lives.
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The writer is a Jalandhar-based freelance contributor